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Russell marveled at his
new upturned perspective. He assumed that if he experienced decollation, seeing
his own body would feel like looking in a mirror. But it wasn’t like that, not
at all. It was like seeing a stranger sitting in his chair.

“I’m not dead, am I?”
Because the collar was doing the job of his vocal chords, the words sounded
hollow and robotic. The collar also circulated oxygenated blood, at least
temporarily. The other half of the device did the same for his body. “Please
tell it to pick me up.”

Colleen got up from the
kitchen table in their modest home. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched
as she dug through the junk drawer. After emptying the contents on the counter,
she found the remote. She held down the button and spoke a command. “Russell
Body, retrieve and protect Russell Head.”

The body lifted him with
all the grace of Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein. Oafish hands held Russell at
chest level, the perfect height to watch his two children laughing at his
predicament. They used their own collars to snap photos. Russel tried to sigh,
but it was beyond the emergency collar’s capability. “Wish I paid for the version
where your head stays on top of your neck.”

“You were the one who
insisted on saving money on our insurance bill.” Her hand went to her own
collar. “At least you bought the deluxe models for me and the kids. But your budget
brand sealed everything off. That’s what’s important.”

“I’ve got mashed potatoes
in my ear.”

“Hush, dear.” Colleen
reached across the table and brushed away the mush. “You know emergency collars
aren’t made for talking. You’ll mess up your oxygen levels. Besides, your
collar should have already alerted the service. The ambulance will be here any
minute.”

That turned out to be
optimistic. By the time two pimple-faced attendants arrived, Russell’s oxygen
levels ran dangerously low. He tried to remember how long this model could
sustain him. A half-hour? Forty-five minutes? He couldn’t think clearly,
couldn’t process. Finally, he saw flashing blue and red lights illuminate the
kitchen curtains. Through his tunnel vision, he watched the attendants guide
his body to the ambulance. He felt a sharp jolt as they plugged him into a
sustaining port. As fresh oxygenated blood pumped through him, his vision and
thoughts returned to normal. An attendant buckled Russell’s body into a seat
across from him. The body sat perfectly straight, like a child waiting to see
the principal—minus a head, of course.

His family stood outside
the rear of the ambulance. “We’ll meet you at the hospital,” she said.
Russell’s son waved goodbye as the doors slammed shut. The only light was a blinking
bulb on the sustaining machine.

Russell listened to his
body breathing, independent and alien. He wished they’d given him a mouth guard
to bite on, because his teeth clicked with every bump in the road. The
attendants up front argued over a three-year-old football game.

At the hospital, he
watched them lead his lumbering body away, presumably to prepare for the
surgery. A transport technician took Russell to a small private room. It was
more of a closet, really—after all, Russell didn’t need much in the way of
space. In the early days of the Anne Boleyn plague, when every man, woman, and
child began wearing collars, patients were kept together to save space. It was
soon discovered communal living exacerbated the unique problems of those
suffering sudden decapitation.

Now that the excitement
died down—and his brain was getting enough oxygen—Russell began to grasp the
reality of his situation. He had no way to pass the time except to stare at the
door, willing it to open. He didn’t have an itch, but the thought of how frustrating
an itch would be was even worse.

“At least it won’t be for
long.” His regular voice, created by the hospital’s superior sustaining system,
echoed in the tiny room. “Thank God for insurance.”

There was no clock in the
room, so Russell had no idea how long he waited until the doctor arrived, file
in hand. The young man was disheveled, with bags under his eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Helmuth,” the
doctor said, reading over Russell’s chart. “Sorry to leave you waiting. The
hospital’s being hit by an out-of-season subito decollate
epidemic. Probably came in on one of the off-world freighters. Heads are
rolling all over town. You’ll be pleased to know, your family has already
tested negative. But you’re lucky we still had a hat box for you.”

“Hat
box?” Russell asked.

“That’s
just what we call rooms like yours. Think nothing of it. I know it’s a bit bare
now, but your family should be done with your paperwork soon. Then they can
bring you some amenities to make it feel more comfortable. Maybe you’d like a
television? Changing the channel will be tricky at first, but you’ll get the
hang of it.”

“Thank
you, Doctor, but I won’t need anything like that. I know there will be a bit of
a wait before my reattachment operation, what with the outbreak. But I’ll be
fine with my family keeping me company. How long will it be? A few more hours?
If it’s a few days, I can finally catch up on my podcasts.”

The
man closed the file, his tired expression collapsing into a frown. “I’m sorry,
Mr. Helmuth, but there may be a misunderstanding. I’m not a doctor, I’m with
the hospital’s billing department. We’re not scheduling an operation at this
time.”

If Russell had been in
possession of a heart, it would have skipped a beat. “Is the outbreak really
that bad? Should I be worried for my family?”

“The outbreak has nothing
to do with it. Mr. Helmuth, I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Your insurance
only covered emergency sustainment and transport to the hospital. We need to
set up a payment plan for your continued care.”

“Payment plan! There’s no
way I would have paid so much for insurance if it didn’t cover reattachment.
I’ll have you know, I’m a certified public accountant!”

“Pardon me, sir, but were
you a very good one?”

“Do you have my policy
there? Show it to me.”

The billing officer held
the document in front of Russell’s eyes, turning the pages on request. When Russell
finished, he tried to clench his fists in anger. Failing that, he ground his
teeth. “Maybe I can get a loan for the operation.”

The billing officer
laughed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Helmuth, but you’re underestimating the cost.
Reattachment surgery is one of the most complex procedures in post-modern
medicine. It makes surgical ventricular restoration look like an appendectomy.
There isn’t a surgeon in this part of the country who can perform it. Even if
you could afford it, the waiting list is decades long.”

Russell tried to hang his
head. “So I’m just stuck here.”

“Only if you set up a
payment plan. Fortunately, you have someone who can work off your bill for
you.”

“My wife? She already has
a job. It covers the mortgage.”

“No, Mr. Helmuth, I’m
talking about your body.”

“My body? It’s worthless
without me, I mean, without my head attached to it, right?”

“Certainly not, Mr.
Helmuth. Your body just became a major asset. It doesn’t complain or need sleep.
We can broker a contract between you and a third party to put your body to
work. It will more than cover the cost of your daily treatment. The additional
money will preserve your family’s quality of life and cover amenities for you
here in the hat box.”

Sweat dripped from
Russell’s forehead into his left eye, making him squint. “I don’t want to die,
so go ahead. It’s not like I could do my old job. Unless I learn to work a ten
key with my mouth.”

“We have computers you
can work with your eyes, sir, but not at the speed you’d require. Anyway, your
boss already called to inform us you’re fired.”

“Why would he call you?”

“If you’ll just sign
here, Mr. Helmuth.”

“And how am I supposed to
do that?”

“Just bite down on the
edge of the paper. That’s perfect. And here’s your copy. I’ll just put it over
here for you.”

After the billing agent
departed, Russell’s family filed in for a visit. His children gave him the
occasional wet willy as Colleen cried. After they left, the lights in the
hatbox dimmed and Russell fell asleep immediately, like a bird in a covered
cage.

As weeks passed, Russell’s
situation improved. Colleen would bring in her phone and some speakers so he
could catch up on his podcasts, and whatever they pumped into his blood at
lights out helped him sleep better than he had in years. But he felt lonely. His
wife became too busy with work and the kids to visit regularly. The days
blurred together.

Then came the day Colleen
walked through the door with a pile of muscles.

Colleen squeezed the
body’s bicep. “It sure is. They had it working at a collar warehouse, loading the
crates by hand. Since it can work for days on end, it tripled their profits. They
made it district manager.” The body puffed out its chest and smoothed its tie.

Russell’s jaw dropped,
clanging against his sustaining port. “How the hell can it manage anyone?”

“By example.” A tear dripped
down Colleen’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Russell. I had to tell you face to face. I’m leaving
you.”

“They get along great.
He’s been helping them with their math homework. Russell Junior loves playing
catch with it.”

“How in the hell—”

Colleen put her finger
over Russell’s lips, shushing him. “We’ll continue paying for your care. With the
body’s raise, you can have anything you want.”

“Almost anything.”

“Yes, almost anything.
It’s the least we can do.”

“The least you can do.
Right. I’ll have to get myself a new sombrero. Do you need me to bite down on
some divorce papers?”

“We don’t need a divorce.
I’m technically still with the majority of you. And I’m afraid I won’t be
visiting again. It’s just too painful.”

“Lady, you haven’t been
to see me in three weeks.”

Colleen wiped her tears
away. “Goodbye, Russell’s head.” She exited, leaving Russell alone in the tiny
room with his body.

“Got to admit,” Russell
said, “You’re looking good. Congratulations on the promotion, you usurping son
of a bitch.”

The body stood motionless
for several seconds, a mannequin from a Big and Tall store. It leaned over and
patted Russell on the top of the head gently.

“Geez.” Russell rolled
his eyes. “You know I can’t stay mad at you. Will you at least come visit me?”

The body shrugged and
left Russell alone in the hat box.

The weeks that followed
were a dark time. Russell slept through most of each day. He refused to let the
attendant shave his face. His brain ached most of the time, worrying the doctor
who stopped by twice a week.

The depression was
atrocious, but the boredom was worse. He tried choosing a target on the wall
and spitting at it, but his support mechanism didn’t provide enough air
pressure. Russell finally broke down, and asked a nurse to bring in a computer.
“Just bill it to my body,” he said. The nurse grinned and patted him on the
head.

Russell struggled to
learn the esoteric controls, a confusing combination of eyebrow, ear, and jaw
movements. But he worked each day until he couldn’t wiggle an earlobe, and by
the end of the week he could browse the internet. Scrolling through the images
projected on his wall, he congratulated himself on not pulling up Colleen’s
social media.

He found new podcasts. As
he listened to one amateur internet radio show after another, he researched his
condition. The Center for Disease Control obscured the statistics, but Russell
didn’t need his body to do the math. The population of heads living in hat
boxes numbered in the millions.

So he started his own
podcast: The Disembodied. Each
morning, he recorded a show. The first hour-long episode consisted of a violent
distillation of his frustrations. He raged about his insurance, his
imprisonment, and losing his wife to the basest part of himself. Subsequent
shows jumped between other rants and gentler ruminations

He recorded three shows before
reaching his first listener. But after that listener posted the link to an
online forum for others living the lifestyle of John the Baptist, the numbers lurched
and kept climbing. Russell sent out an open call, and nurses wheeled in guests
from other hatboxes in the hospital, then from around the country. Emails
poured in, many of them thanking Russell for a reason to wake up in the
morning. His children visited again, apologizing for their callousness. His
daughter enjoyed styling Russell’s hair while he played chess against his son.

A Hollywood heart throb,
the one whose films Colleen always insisted on seeing in the theater, contacted
Russell out of the blue. That morning, the show had more live listeners than
all of the previous episodes combined. On the air, the movie star removed his
collar, revealing his reattachment scar.

After the story broke,
Russell became the voice of a movement. Sponsors poured in, and he no longer
needed his body’s financial support. He did lecture tours and became the most
literal talking head on television. He helped several major companies initiate
grant programs, designed to bring down the cost of reattachment surgeries by
training new doctors and developing new procedures. Russell released his first
book, No Body Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,
which he dictated to his secretary inside a spacious new office. Copies sold
out across the country. Stores couldn’t keep the audio book in stock.

Russell’s secretary was
under standing orders to ignore calls from Colleen. But one afternoon, when
Russell was alone in his office tasting lunch, a knock came at the door. It was
his old body.

“Does Colleen know you’re here?” Russell
asked.

The body shook its
shoulders. It said nothing, of course, but Russell understood what it wanted.

@garaujo1 I dig the original X-Men run, even the later stuff by folks like Arnold Drake. It establishes so much, from Sentinels to Juggernaut to Magneto and the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants to Xavier dying over and over again.

@Barry_Cinematic Yes, it is! I think Screamers is cut, but no idea if they removed gore or bore. There's a longesr version on Dailymotion. I watched it on Prime and had fun. Your mileage may definitely vary! dailymotion.com/video/x20x2dm